


The Prayer

by luluren



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Confessions, Foxhole, M/M, The Ardennes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:25:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5527676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luluren/pseuds/luluren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Ardennes, tucked inside a foxhole, confessions happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prayer

If he thinks about it, it starts in the woods. Starts when Doc becomes more than Doc and becomes Eugene – a man who’s such an enigma it’s impossible for Babe to stay away. 

“You ok?” Gene asks one evening, the mortars having stopped and the rounds ended. 

Nodding, Babe watches silently as Gene slides into the hole, gets comfortable, pushing his legs out as far as they can go. “You ok?” he murmurs.

“’m fine.” He shivers, the movement sliding over until Babe shivers with him, and, because it’s human nature to want to be warm, they curl closer together under the Army-issued green blanket that doesn’t really do much. 

It’s been another day – tossing mortars and shots at each other, the Germans trying to edge closer and Easy holding them back. It’s like a wave, back and forth, back and forth, and he’s tired of it. Wants to gain some fucking ground because the sooner they get it back, the sooner this shit is over. 

His rifle is propped against the side of the foxhole, the moonlight glinting off the metal, and idly he wonders if he’ll have to use it again tonight. 

He really hopes he won’t have to. 

It’s at this exact second that snow starts to fall, tiny little flakes which land on the already snow covered ground, and it makes him think of the blue fabric that’s still on his hand. It’s spotted with dried blood now, but stands out from everything else around him, which always seems to be either brown or white. Red sometimes. 

Gene’s hands are red. Chapped and cracked and Babe thinks about pressing his lips to those cracks, wishing he could heal them with just the touch of his mouth. 

It’s an odd thought, but really – this whole situation is fucked up. 

“Never saw snow till I came to Europe,” Gene says, and amazingly there’s a hint of wonder in his voice. 

“It don’t snow in Louisiana?” Babe whispers, digging into his pocket for his smokes and thinking he can go the rest of his life without seeing snow and it might just be ok.

“Not s-since I’ve lived there,” Gene answers. He’s still shivering, still trying to recover from the cold, and Babe presses closer, his knees knocking with the other man’s and their shoulders fitting just so. 

The glow from Babe’s lighter briefly lights up the tiny hole in the ground before he lifts his thumb and the flame goes out. There’s still the glow from the tip of his cigarette and he waits patiently for what always comes next.

Gene reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of string. It’s worn and ragged, and he murmurs the prayer, winds the string around his fingers. It’s a tradition that started a few nights ago, at least for Babe. For all he knows, Gene’s done this every night since the beginning. 

It’s calming, listening to Gene – he doesn’t talk much so Babe relishes it when he’s got it. 

This is the best part of the day, sitting in this tiny hole in the ground and listening to a smooth voice speak beautiful words, words that Babe doesn’t believe in. Not anymore. 

He wants to, really, but how can he? After everything that’s happened, and all the shit that hasn’t happened yet, and maybe this is why he loves listening to Gene pray. He leeches off of it, clings to the tiny shred of hope those words give him. 

He’s jealous – wishes he could feel secure in his beliefs because it seems like it’s a great security blanket. 

Maybe Gene is his blanket. 

_“To be loved as to love, with all my heart.”_

The words slide out of his mouth without warning, and Gene lifts his head to stare at Babe with raised eyebrows. Babe’s never spoken during this tradition, never commented or interrupted and yeah, it surprises him, too.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, grinning softly, his cheeks red and not because of the cold. 

“’s all right. Didn’t know you paid attention.” Gene unwinds the string from his fingers, lets the frayed ends dangle and Babe leans closer to grab onto it. 

He can’t help the childish anticipation that a spark or a sign will come when his fingers touch those almost sacred strands and when nothing happens but a sharp intake of breath from the man beside him, he finds he’s not disappointed. Perhaps that breath of air is the sign he was expecting. 

It’s unnaturally quiet in their foxhole as they play with the ends of that string, their fingers moving closer and closer, and Babe can’t bring himself to look anywhere else. He hopes he’s not crossing a line, doesn’t think so because the medic’s fingers are meeting his halfway and it’s a familiar twist in his gut as skin brushes skin.

It’s like the lead up to that first kiss, that first dance or that first handful of breast, and it’s crazy and exhilarating all at the same time. He can’t accurately describe the tension that’s filled the air between them, nor put into words what’s it’s like to feels Gene’s fingers against his. 

Moving slowly, Babe slides his hand closer until fingers are entwined and they’re holding on for dear life – or at least, that’s what it seems like. 

The moment’s coming, he’s steeling himself to look up, to meet that dark gaze that always seems to linger carefully, and then, just as their eyes meet over the soft glow of Babe’s cigarette, a whistling sound starts. 

A prickle slides up Babe’s spine – it brings death almost every fucking time.

They huddle together, hands holding down helmets and bodies jolting as that first round hits. It’s chaos, like a fiery hell on earth. One shell after another, relentless in it’s quest to kill every single one of them.

A roar of “Medic!” meets his ears and Babe automatically reaches across to grab onto Gene’s arm. He can’t let him go out in this. 

“Babe, let go,” he says, tugging his arm away but that just makes Babe hold on tighter. 

He knows it’s wrong, that there’s some poor guy who might be bleeding out waiting for Gene to save him and Babe’s holding him back. 

“Gene –”

A tree blows up close by, splinters flying through the air and another cry of medic can be heard. Gene pries Babe’s fingers off his arm, his dark gaze on Babe and like a shot, he’s out of the foxhole.

\---------------------------------------------------

The shelling ends a few minutes later, and Babe climbs out of his foxhole, feeling unbalanced. One of ‘em landed close by, and his ears are still ringing from the blast. 

“You ok, Heffron?” Lip asks, appearing out of the smoke and fog.

“Yeah,” Babe says, shouldering his gun. “I’m fine.” He pauses as Martin and Bull come from the other side, Bull nursing a gash to his forearm. “You seen Doc Roe?”

Lip shakes his head. “No. Should find him though. Bull, you gotta get that patched up.”

“Just a scratch,” Bull growls. 

It’s times like this he misses Bill the most. No matter what happened, Bill was always there to lighten the moment, even if only by clapping a hand on Babe’s shoulder. 

“Get back in your holes,” Lip says. “Could start up again. And Bull, I’ll send Doc Roe your way.”

Getting back in his foxhole makes him sick to his stomach, and as soon as Lipton walks away, Babe follows. 

“Ya think we’ll throw somethin’ back?” he asks, hiking his rifle strap up his shoulder.

“Probably,” Lip answers. He glances over at Babe and smiles. “How are you doin’ Babe?”

“Great. Got hot food and a warm bed… what more can I ask for?” He’s joking, and Lip knows it. “I’m fine, Lip.”

“You shouldn’t be out in the open,” Lip admonishes. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m headin’ back. Had to stretch my legs.”

Not wanting to go back to his foxhole because Gene’s not there, while at the same time not sure if he’d go back if Gene was there, he decides to stop at Luz’s hole and shoot the shit. But halfway there, the cold wind whipping through the trees and branches crackling ominously above his head, a whistling sounds starts again. But this time it’s coming from their side. 

He stands and watches through the trees as the German line lights up, flashes of fire and the heavy bang bang bang. 

Sliding into home, Babe leans back against the hollowed out ground, vibrations from the barrage starting at his butt and working upwards till his whole body shakes with it. He’ll never get used to it.

Maybe that’s a good thing. And maybe it’s not. 

A pair of boots hits the side of his head, and he moves over to let Gene slide in, gaze on the drying blood crusted along the medic’s cuffs. 

“You ok?” He speaks softly, mouth muffled by the green scarf he found back in France before this frozen hell on earth started. 

“’m fine.” Gene tugs his helmet off, throwing it in the corner. 

“You see Randalman?”

“Yeah. Sent him to the aid station. Needs stitches.”

The shelling stops abruptly and they both still, listening for the eerie sounds of tanks coming across the way to retaliate, sliding through the fog and smoke like something out of a nightmare. You’re never sure if it’s actually coming your way until the fog opens up and it’s bearing down on you and suddenly you’re ignoring the instinct to run like hell and instead start firing for all you’re worth. 

If he ever has kids, and they ask him what the war was like, he can’t imagine putting this into words because no matter how much you butter it up, it’s still fucking terrifying. 

A shot rings out, then another, further down the line but Babe still tenses because it could be coming for them any second. 

But then it stops. No more blasts and flying pieces of tree, no more rifle shots. Just a cold, snowy, dark dark night. 

“Babe?”

He turns his head, meets Gene’s gaze tiredly. “Yeah?”

Gene’s got that direct stare going on, the one that always makes Babe edgy because it’s like the man can see every thought that’s going through his head. “Don’t do that again, ok?”

Color bursts across Babe’s cheeks, and there’s no need to ask what Gene’s referring to.

A flare goes off above their heads, the light filtering through the tarp and Gene’s profile lights up, all pale skin and pale lips and dark brows with eyes even darker beneath. The skin between his brows is wrinkled and Babe is struck with the desire to reach and out and smooth that patch of skin. 

“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I … I don’t know what I was thinkin’.”

Gene smiles wryly. “I know.”

“You know everything, don’t ya?” Babe asks, shifting uncomfortably and feeling like the biggest idiot in all of the Ardennes.

“Nah,” Gene says, and now he’s shifting closer to close the space Babe made a few seconds earlier. “But I gotta ask – why’d you do it?”

Babe glances over at Gene and flushes. “I told you I didn’t know what I was –”

“C’mon, Heffron,” Gene says, the smile on his face softening his words. “You had a reason for it.”

Another flare goes off, and Babe stares at it in an attempt to buy himself some time because he can’t really explain why he did it. Other than he didn’t want the medic to be in danger. And how fucked up is that? They’re in danger all the time – life can be snuffed out in seconds around here. 

When he turns back to Gene, he’s got that damn string out again, only this time he’s not whispering any sacred words or winding it around his fingers. It’s just dangling, swinging towards Babe like it’s trying to catch his attention and feeling like his limbs belong to someone else, Babe grasps the frayed end and finds the words he was searching for earlier. 

“I … I can’t do this without you, Eugene.”

\---------------------------------------------------

He’ll never forget the look in Gene’s eyes after he spoke those words that slipped out without any kind of permission. It’s a mixture of pity, and sympathy, and maybe even a little shock. 

They’re big words when strung together like that. Big words with big implications. 

“Babe –” Gene’s brain seems to stops working at this point, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and for some insane reason Babe has to bite back a grin because now isn’t the time for laughing. 

“You don’t mean that,” Gene says softly, and it’s his turn to shift uncomfortably. 

The tightness that’s made itself at home in Babe’s stomach clenches and he clears his throat, the urge to laugh gone. 

“I don’t mean it like… like _that_ ,” he blurts out, knowing full well he might be telling a lie. “I just mean, we’re buddies, yeah? And I like that. You know, like knowin’ you’re here, and sittin’ in this damn hole with ya, and watchin’ you pray.” He knows he’s rambling, that his whisper is getting just a bit too loud and even kind of desperate, but he can’t stop. “It’s comforting, and there ain’t a hell of a lot of comfortin’ things around here if you haven’t noticed.”

“Babe,” Gene murmurs, and he’s brushing those red fingers against Babe’s, dark eyes following Babe’s flickering gaze. 

“I mean,” Babe interrupts, “the past couple of weeks, I find myself lookin’ for you and the thought you might not be around… Jesus, Gene, I feel like I might fall apart if you ain’t here.”

His whispered confession comes to a halting stop and why doesn’t he ever just shut the hell up because Gene’s looking at him like he’s lost his goddamn mind and honestly, there’s a pretty good chance he may have.

“Heffron,” Gene says slowly.

“’m sorry, Gene,” he whispers. “I … you –”

“Babe, don’t,” Gene murmurs, his voice full of warning, and Babe’s stomach plunges down, down, down – it’s a reprimand, a slap in the face, and coming from Eugene, well… Babe pulls away, his face flaming as those hands and that string leave his fingers, along with every shred of dignity he’s ever had. 

\---------------------------------------------------

He’s fallen into a fitful sleep when the Kraut artillery begins to whistle overhead. Jerking awake, he glances over at Gene but the man’s slipped away, and if Babe wasn’t so concerned about not getting blown up, he’d blush in embarrassment. 

The air fills with smoke and sparks of fire and amazingly he can hear Lip yelling from the foxhole a few yards away – “Take cover! Take cover!”

Holding onto his helmet and curling in on himself, Babe stares through the gap in the tarp, partly amazed at the destruction. Killing every fucking Kraut across the way flashes through his mind because why can’t they let him have just one good nights’ rest? 

A sick feeling works it’s way up his throat and he wonders if it’s because of what happened earlier or what’s happening now. There’s no time to figure out which though because, and fuck it happens so fast, a flash goes off a few feet in front of him and he’s blown backwards, his back hitting the edge of the foxhole with a crack.

It’s pure chaos for a long time – ears ringing and vision black and a buzzing in his head that he fears may never go away. All he can think is that he’s alive, at least he thinks he is because Heaven shouldn’t have buzzing, right?

He’s in and out for a few minutes, not really sure what’s going on until a set of hands grasp his arms and pull him from the wrecked foxhole. The world is still blowing up and there’s heavy breathing in his ear that sounds much louder than it should.

“C’mon, Babe,” the voice says, hands still dragging him through the snow and busted trees, “please, Heffron.”

He’s trying to get his feet under him but those hands are pulling him kind of harshly and he can’t manage it. “Jesus Christ,” he says as he's dropped into another foxhole, a warm body pressed tight to his side.

“Talk to me, Heffron,” the voice says, and Babe finally recognizes that tone and that lilt and he melts into Gene’s side.

“’m fine, Eugene, fine,” he says, even though he’s really not sure if he is. It’s kinda hard to say with all the buzzing and the darkness and while he’d never tell Gene this, the medic’s kind of smothering him in his eagerness to make sure Babe’s ok.

It’s chaotic and like a variable hell on Earth, but eventually it stops and all Babe hears is Gene’s breath in his ear. 

But then something happens, something shifts and now Gene’s got his hands on Babe’s cheeks and he’s leaning in and peppering tiny kisses along cheekbones that are half frozen. 

“Babe,” Gene whispers, his hot breath sliding across Babe’s skin, “goddammit, why’d you –”

“Gene,” Babe murmurs, unable to think beyond the fact that the medic’s lips are touching him, something he’s inadvertently dreamed of for a few days now. “’m fine, I –”

Chapped lips are on his then and it’s like the hit from the mortar never happened – Babe’s clinging to Gene’s lapels, sure he’s in another universe because Gene would never kiss him like this, would he? Hands are pulling him closer and it’s messy and wet and perfect. Another reason this can’t be real. 

Gene pulls back then, he’s panting heavily and his fingers dig into the back of Babe’s neck like he’s never going to let go. 

“Why’d you have to say it?” Gene murmurs, his voice low and desperate. “God, Babe, why?”

There isn’t an explanation, not one that Babe can think of, and instead he leans in and kisses Gene, long and slow, just because he can. 

Several moments pass where they do nothing but touch but eventually Gene remembers the blast that brought them here, and he stills. “Let me look you over,” he murmurs, and for a second Babe has an insane thought of stripping out of his uniform and warm hands running across his skin. 

“I told you I’m all right,” Babe whispers, but Gene’s fingers run up the back of his head and he winces. “Well, maybe not that spot.”

There’s a flick of a lighter and suddenly the foxhole is lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree. “Jesus Christ,” Babe whimpers, pulling back, away from the light but Gene’s fingers are like a vice on the back of his neck. 

“Stop movin’,” Gene orders and Babe obeys because that’s how it always goes. 

Silent moments pass while Gene peers into Babe’s eyes and Babe wants nothing more than to flick the light out and kiss Gene, knowing it’ll be a lot easier to do so in the dark. 

“I don’t think you have a concussion,” Gene murmurs, and then, thank God, the light is gone and it’s like his thoughts are in a bubble over his head, just like in the comics he used to read back home, because Gene’s kissing him again. 

“I was so goddamn mad at you,” Gene’s saying in between kisses, “but … goddamit I can’t do this without you either, Babe. You … you gotta be careful. Christ, you gotta.”

There’s a hundred things Babe wants to say, but he’s already said his piece, and now it’s Gene’s turn. It’s Gene’s words and it’s his hands and his mouth and it’s like Babe’s drowning in it, and while there probably won't be a happy ending, he doesn't care, not right now. He wants only what he has, and for now it's all that matters.


End file.
